


Love Me Like You Love Your Sad Violin

by jarethsdragon



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23744281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarethsdragon/pseuds/jarethsdragon
Summary: Sojiro Shimada is pleased to listen to you play your violin—but what about Hanzo?
Relationships: Hanzo Shimada/Female Reader, Hanzo Shimada/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 118





	Love Me Like You Love Your Sad Violin

From your first anxious recital, you loved the heady feel of performing, of making your violin sing. And when it sang, you felt so alive, so light, you drifted and twirled like you could never do sober. But with the Omnic Musica line of artificials, music was never again a way to make a living.

You tried the orchestras, the quartets and quintets, and even the restaurants. No one wanted a live musician anymore. You were unable to find anything, but you worked when you could and played your violin for yourself in the park, your tiny apartment.

So, you joined the hordes of starving artists in the world.

You were lost in an arpeggio among the trees of the park when you saw an older man sitting nearby. He was in a stylish running suit and, peculiarly, there was a man in a stiff and starched wool suit and Prada sunglasses a bit behind him. He had a coordinated cap with a bill and then a rather ostentatious carved wooden walking stick. He gave you a smile and a nod, gesturing for you to continue with all the regal ceremony of an emperor.

You continued, working through the rest of the piece. It was harder now—tremendously, unexpectedly harder—now that you had an audience. You let out a puff of air and tried to unknot your fingers to handle the trills of the melody. There was something odd, something unsettling, about your solitary audience. It gave you an unnatural chill, making your attention suddenly lock on a timid little squirrel as it darted into a bush. You were sure you were being hunted, being stalked, but that was absurd since you were in a public park. You were only a few yards from a street and less than ten feet from the walking path. You were able to see a bit of the playground from here—you had chosen to sit on a bench a little bit away from the chattering and running children—but there were people walking away from you on the path.

Taking in a deep breath, you closed your eyes. In your mind, you were in a musical at a theater. Or in some story or ballet. You switched to a piece from Mozart’s Magic Flute and pictured the stage, the settings, the musicians that would be around you. You were staring into the blinding star of the spotlight with the anonymous heads all raptly paying attention to you. It was a peculiar favorite—more suited to an orchestra—but it felt magical to you. Then you were there, on the stage and surrounded by people. It ignited that spark within you, making you stand, then sway and then start to twirl. You were again a piece of dandelion fluff and could drift on the swelling music.

At the end of your solo, you were glowing with delight and a fine trace of sweat. Your audience nodded and gave you a regal round of applause. You shivered at the trace of fear down your spine and gave him a curtsy. You couldn’t meet his sharp and predatory eyes as you set down your violin in the case and snapped the bow in the clips in the top.

You saw a shadow cover your hands and looked up. The suited man in his dark glasses loomed over you despite his bow. He held a crisp cream card out to you with both hands. “With thanks for the excellent performance.”

You trembled and stood, taking the card with your hands. “Th-thank you.”

He nodded and bowed again. “Do you have a card, miss?”

“A card?” You gaped up at him, uncomprehending. “Wh—?” Suddenly your brain engaged. “Yes, of course. A card.”

Your card case was pristine, showing how few times you had taken it out over the years. The cards were sharp and untouched inside, showing a pretty sumi-e violin beside your name, your cell phone number and a short line saying ‘Soloist’. You bowed and held your card out for him to take.

You carefully took the card and stared at it. A red logo character was on the left with “Shimada Enterprises” then “Shimada Sojiro” in English and presumably Japanese. The business address, phone number, a fax number were in the lower right corner in a pleasant grey. There were all kinds of rules and etiquette over how to receive business cards and you fumbled to pull out your purse and your little wallet to set the card inside. Somehow you were now embarrassed at your ragged purse and your threadbare wallet as they watched. You bowed again, low and hopefully respectfully enough, and thanked them.

The older gentleman nodded absently and rose to his feet, leaning on his cane. The younger man settled your card in a smooth leather holder that went into a chest pocket of his suit coat, gave you a short bob of a bow again and followed him as they followed the cement path away.

You expected nothing to come of it. It was just another person who was polite and you had no reason to feel so uneasy. You had been given quite a few cards before, and nothing came of it. No one wanted a human musician with human fallibility when they could get an OmniCorp Musica 2100 that would never take breaks, knew every song by heart, and could download thousands more. It was nothing.

So, you were considerably surprised when you had a message on your cell phone not four days later. You were to be picked up at your apartment for a solo engagement to play for a party. The party was several hours and the pay was... outrageous. So, you took out your credit card and bought a pleasant, black dress, three pairs of black hose and cleaned up your shiny black pumps with the low heels. You practiced around shifts at the diner and shined up the violin.

You were expecting a terrible, rowdy party. Something stupid or so bound up in protocol you couldn’t begin to enjoy it. Instead, it was an orderly and formal affair with men in business suits and women in designer outfits in small groups. You were told to simply wander from room to room—the large room with the exquisite buffet, the two rooms with small groups standing around tables, or the parlor looking room that featured oiled leather seats—and play what you liked.

It was not like earning money at all. It was like being in the park again and, to your surprise, no one harassed you or catcalled you or anything. No one seemed to do more than mildly notice you passing. The men simply nodded vaguely in your direction and the women gossiped. You were shocked to see the sheer amount of delicacies—shrimp, lobster, caviar, asparagus tips with prosciutto, sushi in colorful rolls, tiny sandwiches, smoked salmon—and the copious number of bottles of alcohol. There seemed to be unending numbers of servants and staff with trays of shots, tumblers of scotch or whiskey, and delicate sake in egg shaped cups. You had never seen such blatant and conspicuous wealth in one place.

You were just one more fitting in the party. Live music just one more perfect facet in the evening, like the ice sculpture of twining dragons surrounded by perfect pink shrimp and yellow lemon slices on one side and shot glasses on the other.

It made you shiver as you finally drifted into a room and saw the older man—apparently Shimada Sojiro—again. This time he had three men in discrete suits around him, watching the party, and was in a suit tailored to the heights of fashion. He gave you a slight nod—barely an acknowledgement of your presence—and then looked back at the group of men in front of him. He didn’t seem to be overly concerned and wasn’t pinning you with his attention like before. So, instead of freezing, you kept drifting through the hallways, playing your violin.

You took a short break, ducking into a hallway to get to the bathroom, when you bumped into a man. Literally—you bumped into him as he emerged from a different room off the hallway. You had to step back to give him a bow and start rattling out your apologies.

He was not like any of the other men you had walked around. He was tall and thick with muscles with broad shoulders and a narrow waist in one of the new styles of suites. Grey pinstripes went through dark navy. The suit jacket was one of the latest style that left one crisp white sleeve bare. The designer’s royal blue logo was on his shoulder. His hair was somewhere between short and long in almost feathery layers with slight silver at his temples and a thread or two of white in his sharp beard and his thin mustache.

He tugged restlessly on his skin tight leather gloves and settled the thick gold watch to perfection on his wrist. The movement—the flickering—caught your gaze and you shook to see the crisp and clear lines of a tattoo under his watch. You couldn’t move for a moment as you realized what it was.

Yakuza.

You stumbled back, looking up at him warily and almost dropping your violin. “I’m so-sorry. Sir. I’m so sorry....”

He looked down at you for a moment and cocked his head. It was as if he couldn’t exactly place you, couldn’t remember who you were or something and needed to stare to jog his memory. Then he nodded as regally as Sojiro ever had and murmured, “I apologize. I should have... ahh... looked where I was going.” He gave you a small grin. “And now that I am looking....”

“I’m so sorry, sir.” You scrambled around and flattened against the wall with your violin up at your chest. “I am... Sorry. I am.... I will.... I should look where I am going, sir.”

He nodded and simply picked up your hand from your chest. Slowly and deliberately, he shook it with a bow. “I should introduce myself—.”

From behind him a taller, more slender man emerged. The new man had an equally fashionable suit in gray and green rather than shades of blue and tremendously spiky green hair. “Hey, anija—we need to go.” He craned to ogle you around the larger man. “Ahhh.... I see. And who is this?”

The first man tightened his fists and looked over his shoulder. “Enough, Genji. I am coming.”

“Take your time, Hanzo.” He let out a low whistle. “I owe you for all the times you covered for me, eh?”

Hanzo snorted and whirled on his heel, leaving you alone in the hallway. Everyone was pulling out of the various corners to move to another room and you thought you heard someone ringing a bell or something. It seemed that everyone was being called to order, which seemed to be a perfect time to duck into the powder room. Like all traditional households, you stepped out of your shoes and slid on the bathroom slippers—which was a relief on your feet. You gulped some water from your cupped hands, took a moment to relieve yourself and wash up. Whatever was going on, you weren’t going to find out or be curious about it because you certifiably didn’t want to know. If Sojiro had made you nervous, the man named Hanzo made all of your nerves light up with warning sirens.

The men were gone when you returned and two bulky men blocked the door to two rooms. You continued playing, wandering through the few rooms that the women were occupied in. The women paid little attention to you as they discussed high fashion and exotic trips and such. One of them wore a necklace you would have sworn was pictured in the newspaper and another seemed to be the owner of a series of exclusive boutiques. Quite a few of them had delicate, lacy tattoos around their wrists or low between their shoulders in the shapes of carps and geisha and dragons.

You were terrified.

Still, as long as you closed your eyes and concentrated on the music of your violin, you were able to blot out enough that you could keep playing. And playing and playing. At long last—after a full round of mimosas and two servants with trays of canapés—the men came back. They were in high spirits and jovial as they began mixing with the women. You shuddered, carefully avoiding catching their attention and fading as much as you could into the background.

At the end of the party, you were relieved to get going. Sojiro would hear of nothing but to send you home in one of his cars with one of his drivers with your large check in your violin case. Thank goodness you were going home and you would conveniently have plans if anyone called back.

Unfortunately, everything seemed to conspire against you. You lost your job. You burned through your savings as you needed to pay for some repairs to your heat pump. Then there was a problem with your credit card and you needed to make a massive payment. Your savings were gone like smoke in the wind.

And he called again.

The next party was another elegant affair celebrating something you had no desire to find out about and you were driven home with another weighty check. Then there was a short party that was on a yacht for two other couples and his sons and their dates. Then there was a supper—perhaps a birthday. Then a small party. Then there was a small gathering to watch a moonrise while the cherry blossoms were in bloom....

Your entire budget was now based on Sojiro Shimada’s whims.

After three months, he was having you come over once or twice a week to play for a few hours as he ate his dinner. Then, when your apartment complex raised its rates to a level that you couldn’t afford, he quietly offered to have you live on his estate where you enjoyed a luxurious private bathroom, a sitting room and a huge bedroom that could almost hold your whole apartment. So, in exchange, you were to play for him during his meals and at odd times during the day.

“You play divinely,” Sojiro complimented smoothly as you finished a difficult solo. He took a few bite of obscenely expensive Kobe steak and nodded to his sons absently. “I always enjoy your music.”

Hanzo took a sip of hot tea. “Indeed. I have rarely heard Mozart played so well.” His dark eyes glittered up at you. “I took a few lessons in my youth and remember that it seemed difficult to get eighteenth notes right. Perhaps you would be interested in—?”

Sojiro’s voice dipped into a low growl. “Enough, Hanzo. She is not here for you.”

Genji gave you and his father a playful pout. “Aww...” He laughed briefly as you turned red. “But she is so pretty!”

“You, too, Genji.” Sojiro snarled at him, “I mean it. I do not intend to allow her to be harassed by either of you. She is here to give me the pleasure of her music and talent—.”

Genji whispered something about “pleasure” and “talent” that you didn’t catch, but apparently his father did, based on his scowl.

“—And I do not intend to have my enjoyment curtailed because one or both of you cannot keep your pants zipped.” He waved at you absently. “Go on, then. I want to speak to my sons.”

You bowed and retreated from the serious men. Still, things changed for you. You would feel eyes on you. You could be alone and just knew someone was watching you. You would check your room, looking behind the elaborate painting of a pair of carp or examining the sleek and modern lamp, but never found anything. Then you would think you were just being paranoid—no one would spy on you as insignificant as you were—and you would try to go on without constantly looking over your shoulder. 

When you went to the mostly empty room that Sojiro had had redecorated as a music room—stands of music, tuners and tuning forks, a desk for writing your music, a small computer with recording equipment and three chairs. A tall Chinese apothecary cabinet was in the corner with dozens of tiny drawers holding everything you could ask for in it. You began your scales up and down, letting each note flow out for a long moment before rolling to the next.

You heard some small sound—nothing more than a soft sigh—and opened your eyes to find the imposing figure of Hanzo in the doorway. His eyes were glowing and you fancied you saw a slight tightness in his jaw and a rosiness along his sharp cheeks that made you shiver. Finally you lowered your instrument and bowed low. “Good afternoon.”

He finally gave you a wolffish smirk and nodded regally. “Good afternoon.”

You glanced at the elegant clock on the wall and it was not even teatime. Usually, you would not be requested until late afternoon, sometimes not until dinner. It gave you most mornings to practice and arrange your pieces. If you didn’t perform, you would have a servant knocking at your door at 6:15 precisely with a bento box of delicacies and a small pot of tea just for you. So, for you to be summoned at all at this hour—especially by the Shimada Scion—surely meant trouble.

“Am I being...? I mean, should I—?” You stammered anxiously, “What can I do for the Master?”

“My father is indulging in a nap before leaving to be... ah... entertained this evening.” Even his low purr sounded predatory. “He is going to visit the tea house to see Yukihana-san and Mameha-san.” You must have looked shocked or curious or something because he chuckled again. “They are geisha.”

What were you supposed to say to that?! “Oh?”

He nodded. “He has known Mameha-san for many years. He became her dana just after Genji was born. Tonight, they will celebrate that her apprentice has successfully sold her mizuage for a large sum and has become a full geisha. And as Mameha-san’s dana, it is partly his success as well.”

“Oh.” You looked away slightly. You rarely got any kind of detail of your patron’s comings and goings, much less any explanation. “I see. Perhaps I will see him tomorrow.”

“Would you like to know more?” He smirked at your short and hesitant shake of your head and your flaming cheeks. “It is not whatever lurid and... explicit things are going through your head. As her dana, he provides money for Mameha-san’s expenses as a geisha.”

“I... never considered he would do anything... else.”

That made him nod. “Of course, watashi no mujitsu.” He gave you an ironic look. “However, since you have the rest of today free, I was wondering if you would give me a small performance.”

“You?!” you squeaked. “I mean... I hadn’t thought. That you would—.”

“You do not believe that I would enjoy it?” He all but snickered at your squirming embarrassment. “You think it would not give me... pleasure?”

You had nothing to say to that. So, you stumbled after him and played for him instead. His gaze stayed fixed on you as you swayed stiffly to your own music. You finished two pieces before his phone rang and you could barely bow as you rushed out. Sojiro at least relaxed, smiled at you and nodded. If he really enjoyed your music, he would tap his fingertips in time with his eyes half closed as if an orchestra conductor was lurking inside him. 

Hanzo simply sat at his desk, his eyes fixed solely on you.

Inevitably, things changed. Sojiro was still in charge and your patron, but now Hanzo was firmly a part of your world. Whenever Sojiro was unavailable, he would come find you wherever you were. It started innocently as a flirtation with the firm boundaries that Sojiro had put in place at first—silly “accidental” meetings as you passed him in the hallway, passing a message or bringing you some small thing from wherever you left it.

Then he called you to his office one evening. You rushed down with your violin and the thickly muscled bodyguard gave you a knowing grin as he silently let you in. Hanzo sat there at the strangely empty desk with a delicate cup cradled in his hands. You heard the door click closed behind you and you half turned to stare at the immense and carved wood.

Then he cleared his throat and you whirled around see him smirking at you over his cup. He nodded at you and waved. “You have been working on a new Chopin piece?” You nodded—you had begun practicing it only today. “Proceed.”

You did your best. Still, his stare pinned you to the floor and robbed you of your enjoyment. It grew harder to play the notes as he kept staring. Your fingers trembled under his stare until you were barely able to coax anything out.

“Something wrong?”

“I... no, sir.” You bowed and backed up to hide your trembling hands. “I have not... not practiced... this piece. Enough. Not... enough.”

He shrugged with a grin. “I have not noticed anything wrong. Perhaps you should sit down. I can order you some tea help your nerves.” He pointed at a chair across from his and picked up the phone. “Just a moment.”

“Oh. No—.”

“You are refusing?”

You didn’t know what to say to that. What was the right answer to that? “No... thank you.” Your whole face went red. “Really.... I will go practice.”

Before he could say anything else, you leapt to the door and yanked it open. The bodyguard was standing with his back to you—directly in the middle of the door. He whirled, his hand going to what was undoubtedly a hidden gun or knife or something under his suit coat. Then, he stared at you with wide, surprised eyes.

You muttered “excuse me” and wriggled around him. He reached out to grab your arm and if you hadn’t been holding your violin, you would have wrestled away. His eyes were cold suddenly, as if you were a complete stranger, and he looked back into the office.

“Sir?”

“I suppose it is acceptable—this time.”

You bolted away as soon as you could. Hanzo’s hot and focused gaze was still scraping your raw nerves even when you got back to the music room. You couldn’t practice. You couldn’t concentrate. You felt desperate to get away, but equally sure that there wasn’t anywhere you could run that he wouldn’t find you. No one came after you, nor any message expressing their displeasure.

Still, it felt like a wall or protection had crumbled.

Hanzo kept calling you when you weren’t entertaining his father. He would sit there, his entire attention riveted on every move you made. It scared you a little when he did because he would sit there at his heavy, empty desk or at a equally empty table, a cup of tea or sake sitting there ignored as he watched you. No matter what he was doing, he would stop entirely and focus on you.

You kept telling yourself that it was innocent. That it was your overactive imagination driving you to think that Hanzo was interested in more than your music. When you were shuddering alone in the dark in your room, you told yourself that Sojiro had forbidden them to harass you. Sojiro was so proud of you and your skill, showing you off at parties and gatherings—you were in no danger of losing your protection as long as you kept your distance.

That was scant comfort as you were called again to the Scion’s office. You practically had a key to the place now, as often as he called you. The bodyguard who stood in the doorway every night would simply let you in and would carefully be sure that you were alone with him. Then he would close the door behind you and you would be undisturbed, no matter how many times you begged for someone to interrupt.

You were getting better at swallowing your nervous and anxious fears. You could play around it, add a trill or a arpeggio to hide your shaking fingers. You could twirl and at least momentarily not see that dark, burning gaze. You could close your eyes over a difficult bit and imagine that you were anywhere else.

It wasn’t until you were playing the Chopin piece—again—that you realized it. Hanzo was sitting there at his desk as you played. It was a heavy Chippendale piece out of mahogany with a navy shaded lamp on a graceful, thin steel stem with a thickly upholstered desk chair behind it. There was nothing on it—no computer or phone or blotter or calendar or papers—except for a glistening white tokkuri carafe full of chilled ginjo sake and two white cups like eggshells.

You were jolted out of your musically inspired reverie when you realized that you were only seeing his right hand. Only his right hand. He was leaning slightly forward, propping up up on his elbow as he stared at you. His eyes were dark and hot like coals as he stared at you and his other hand was in his lap.

That made you look up at him. His eyes flared slightly and his grin stretched wider as if he was a cat caught with the canary chirping in its mouth. He let out a soft grunt and shuddered slightly, his hand moving in his lap. You doggedly kept going and somehow did not feel rewarded when as his face tensed and his eyes almost closed. Your music went high again and he let out a pleased sigh. He smiled in a wide, toothy way and suddenly leaned back as if a sudden relief had rolled over the top of him.

You stumbled backward, unnerved that he was suddenly sighing so deeply and leaning back like that. His hand had a fine tremble to it as he reached for the sake cup and he took a deep sip. He seemed to be winded, as if he had been running. His head went back to the cushioned seat and he seemed to be suddenly limp in a way you had never seen before. He didn’t even seem to notice that you had stopped. That you were just staring at him with your violin and bow in your limp hands. Finally, he barely opened his eyes and smiled at you.

“You continually give me such pleasure,” he purred in a low rumble.

You nodded and looked away, somehow certain that you didn’t want to think about what he might have been.... No. Just no. You didn’t want to know. “Th-th-thank you....”

He only closed his eyes and waved limply at the cups. “Perhaps you would care to drink with me now?”

“Umm.... I don’t think—.”

“Ahh... a little sake will not harm you. You are not driving—you are only going to go scurrying down the hall again.” He grinned at you. “Or, if you are worried, I can escort you to your room myself.”

You shook your head, the instrument slick and your fingers numb. “I’m..... I’ll be fine. I’m... just going... to go.”

He simply smiled as you all but ran to your room. You were going to refuse the next time he summoned you. (Were you that brave?) You were going to tell Sojiro. (Tell him what?) You were going to ask someone for help. (Who would defy the Scion here?) You were going to run away. (Where could you go that he couldn’t find you?) You were going to get a new job. (Who would hire you? What could you do?) You were....

What? What could you do?

You couldn’t do anything. You could hardly go out with your violin and a resume of performing for a yakuza boss. You couldn’t do anything. You should probably keep counting your blessings that you had a roof overhead and something like a job.

Hanzo summoned you again a few days later. You were shaking as you stumbled down the hallway. You cradled your instrument like a baby as you tried to figure out what you were going to do next. The bodyguard only smirked and nodded at you.

“Good evening, miss.”

Hanzo sat there in a casual yukata, his eyes alight with humor you couldn’t share. Your eyes nervously dipped at the loose lapels that gave you a shadowed glimpse of his smooth chest almost to his waist. When he waved his arm at you, offering you a drink of sake, you bit your lip to see the waving ink tail across his shoulder and chest.

He caught you looking. Which made him grin and nod at you. “At last, you have come.” He poured a small measure of the potent alcohol in the second cup. “Please... sit. Have a drink with me.”

You shook your head. “I... was....”

“Sit first.” He pointed at the heavy chair. “Have a sip.”

“I... am.... Not—.” Your mouth went dry and you could barely stutter out the words. “I am sorry. I.... I was—. Playing music?”

He nodded and sipped from his cup. “A little sake first.”

“N-n-no, thank you...?”

He shrugged. “As you wish, pet.”

“What?!”

“As you wish.” He leaned back lazily with one hand in his lap and the other cradling the sake cup in his long fingertips. “I can’t tell you how much... pleasure it gives me that you are here.”

You took a deep breath and began a rather intricate piece that demanded your full attention. You hoped it would take your mind off of what he was doing. Instead, it made you somehow hyper aware that you were trying to not think about what might be happening just under the desk.

“Koneko,” he murmured. “I think... perhaps I would like... something slower.”

“S-s-slower?” you mumbled.

“Perhaps a... slower piece. A waltz. A nocturne.” He shrugged. “I find slow music so... relaxing. So... pleasurable.”

You blinked at him in confusion and a sudden flood of embarrassment. “W-w-what?”

“The way you dance. The way you... move,” he purred sensually. “I want to see that.”

Slow—like a waltz or nocturne. You could do that—you had done it many times—but here alone with him. You began a slow piece, not too complicated, and tried to ignore him. His eyes followed you like embers as you played. Then you saw him lean back and set his hands in his lap. You closed your eyes for a moment, picturing the music in front of you. Then you heard movement—slow at first. Almost at the rhythm of your melody, his hands moved. There was a soft sound and your anxious eyes caught the movement of cloth, the shift in the folds of his clothing. You turned, wove so that you were facing the back wall as you took a deep breath—or three—and tried to ignore the scraping sound of flesh on flesh.

His breath became an audible counterpoint as you turned back around. His eyes were almost closed and and his head pressed back hard into the back of the chair. His neck and chest were rosy and glistened with sweat as he panted through grinning teeth, watching you. The chair let out a soft moan as it rocked ever so slightly.

You turned again, facing a side wall and your gaze was frozen to a small speck of a gray shadow of some slight imperfection on the wall. The rocking—the sound of the chair trembling back and forth—sped up. Your cheeks flushed and your teeth ground as you realized it—there was no mistaking it. It made you shiver that he was....

He groaned aloud and the chair flopped back in sudden, loose relief.

That made you jump. Your bow made a terrible shrieking screech across the strings. It was an embarrassment to musicians everywhere and it rang in an atonal echo in your ears. You stared at the wall in red faced agony and muttered, “S-s-sorry.”

He let out the kind of sigh usually reserved for cigarette commercials and soap operas. “You were... perfect.”

“I should go,” you insisted without looking at him.

He let out another pleased sigh and you thought he wasn’t going to answer you. There was a soft rustle of cloth and the rumble of an unseen drawer opening and closing. Then he let out another sigh. “Must you?”

“Yes!”

He gave you a chuckle and you glanced over your shoulder to see the gleam of his smile. You didn’t dare look at him, so you trained your eyes on his desk. Then you saw a rumpled blue cloth. It wouldn’t have caught your notice normally, but there was a large wet stain on the flawless blue cloth.

Your stomach twisted and you ran from the office, followed by his laughter.

You were trapped. You tried to speak to the other staff, but they quickly shushed you. You tried refusing the summons, but he simply found you and drug you to his office as people smiled and bowed and refused to see it. You tried talking to the bodyguard but he only snorted that he was following orders before shoving you inside.

In desperation, you finally tried to go to Sojiro. The old man at first simply refused to listen, trying to distract you with an outing or with new music or small gifts. And you knew it was embarrassing and you knew that going to a father to complain—however rightfully—about his son was... unspeakably terrible. Still, you had to try. He asked what you had actually seen and you had to admit that you saw nothing and that the honorable Shimada Scion had sat at his desk the entire time. Then he would scold Hanzo in front of you at the next meal, warn him away, and Hanzo would wait a few days—maybe a week—before he would send for you again. 

It seemed... futile to resist the inevitable tide.

After you had been a resident of Hanamura for a few months more, Sojiro fell ill with a new type of virus. People said it was coming in from Chinese tourists, but no one really knew. Then you were called on more often to play for him during the times that he wasn’t able to sleep. Then to play as he received infusions of medicines or treatments.

You didn’t know what to think.

He kept you carefully away from quite a lot of minor, everyday troubles. You were able to rest easy—easier—without worrying about rent or groceries or such. You had never had such practice time and most any copy of any music was yours for the asking. You had even had an offer to buy a costly antique violin, but you cherished your own. You had even been asked to play—small solos or duets—during smaller public performances. Perhaps you would even get a following since you seemed to be largely seeing the same faces over and over.

The virus went into pneumonia and your patron was forced to retire and leave his empire of businesses and stocks and properties and heaven only knew what all to his eldest son. For some reason, you were not as inclined to play lighthearted little pieces. You went into slow and sleepy sonatas and nocturnes now. Slow ballads. Sleepy music and lullabies. You rocked back and forth instead of drifting around lightly on your feet.

In a peculiar way, you were sad and in another way, you were entirely numb. The rarified society of the yakuza powerful were terrifying and you played mostly to avoid thinking about how you would survive without your patron. And Sojiro was now....

Dying.

He had been a consistently appreciative audience and he had paid well. He had put you forward as a talented woman, recommending you and complimenting you. He had a liking for sonatas, for classical pieces, but he had no complaints when you tried modern pieces. He seemed at times like a renaissance man with varied interests in arts and sciences. He sponsored a scholarship at the local university.

He ordered deaths and crimes like others order hot dinners.

You continued to avoid his sons like the plague. Hanzo was now mostly in charge of the clan, in name if not in fact. He was busy and intense and seemed to have everything under control, but seemed obsessive in his need to know every single detail and control it. Genji was still a playboy who loved the fast life, the good life. He still played as much as Hanzo worked and while he always had something to say to you—your dress, your latest piece, your hair—it was quite obvious that it meant nothing. He was a good time guy who would flame into a girl’s life and then vanish like a comet. The latter you couldn’t count on and the former.... you didn’t dare.

Then came the sad day that Sojiro passed.

He left you a small sum, like he left a lot of the servants and staff. The man who served as his valet was given a tidy sum and was going to retire. The cook got enough to pay for an Omnic prosthetic for her son and a heartfelt compliment on her mochi. The secretary got Sojiro’s exotic gold pen and pencil set and a small sum. Everything left was in the care of his eldest son.

You were not part of the family and were only given a chance to briefly view him with the other servants before the family services began. Hanzo “indulged” you—that’s what he called it—and allowed you to play a soft requiem as the family was ushered in, but then ordered the driver to take you back to Hanamura. You knew you were again out of a job, and decided to make a clean break and start packing.

You paused in wrapping up the exquisite vase you had received for playing during the old man’s birthday party to go get something to drink. It seemed that you were packing for hours but Sojiro had been very prompt and proud to give you gifts for your birthday, for Christmas, for occasions that seemed to warrant it. And all of it was fragile and delicate from the antique and hand painted fan from three birthdays ago to the exotic Corsican leather portfolio to hold your sheet music along with a crisp pad of stiff music paper and a heavy pen. You were surprised to realize how much stuff you had around your suite of rooms. It would take a lot more than the three boxes you came in with. The kitchens had boxes—they always did since they ordered food in almost commercial, restaurant quantities—and you could grab some while you got a glass of water and maybe some chips or something.

You were walking down the hallway in a sullen, thoughtful mood when you saw the flare of light around the corner. Someone must be coming into the front door—probably another wreath of white chrysanthemums or something—and you sighed. The servants had been run ragged, and there didn’t appear to be a break now because gifts and flowers and letters were pouring in.

You were mildly surprised to find Hanzo and Genji in the foyer. Two silent bodyguards were in the corners of the room as Genji slid out of the heavy white suit coat. He nodded at you and turned back to his brother, “I’m glad that’s over.”

Hanzo snorted impatiently, tugging at his own suit and brushing a white chrysanthemum petal off his lapel. “I suppose that you are correct. The service seemed to take an extraordinarily long time.” He gave a short bow in your direction and gave you a smirk. “It is a shame that all who knew him could not attend the funeral.”

You dropped into a respectful bow in return and murmured some kind of reply.

Genji was smirking at you in some kind of empty way that made you feel a bit odd and shy. “Well, I guess I’ll go on then.” His eyes glittered knowingly, as if he was watching a cat steal cream—and cheering for it. “It’s just a little too hot in here for me.”

You frowned as he tossed his coat over his shoulder and walked out. Then you looked at the other son. It broiled in you to ask what he meant by that, but Hanzo’s burning eyes dried up your throat. What were you going to say? You couldn’t quite remember.

His smile seemed wider now, and but instead of the weary tired posture, he seemed strangely energized. His eyes glittered now and the way he cocked his head suggested an almost predatory stare.

“Umm... I am very sorry. About your father,” you whispered. It seemed the right thing to say. “My sympathies for your loss.”

He nodded, his smile never faltering. In fact, he seemed peculiarly pleased by your response, although you had no idea what you had said that might please him that much. “Thank you.” He shifted slightly, rolling up slightly on the balls of his feet, as if he was planning on pouncing on something. “Perhaps... we could talk tonight.”

“What?”

His teeth flashed as his smile spread. “We could talk tonight.” He gestured innocently. “Talk about... my father.”

You took a half step back as something clenched in your stomach. “Umm... I was just getting some boxes. From the kitchen.”

He raised an eyebrow and then finally shook his head. “There is no need to rush, is there?” You blinked anxiously. “Then things can wait.” He waved his hand. “We have plenty of rooms and there is no reason to race through things.” You were going to say something, to protest, but he simply turned casually and tossed over his shoulder, “I will see you at dinner, then.”

You finally found your voice. “B-b-but, I am... only—.”

He paused in the hallway and looked over his shoulder. He seemed to ignore your stuttering and you despaired when he said, “It is my house now.”

Suddenly, it was like everyone knew that the Shimada Scion had unfinished business with you. The kitchen was oh so polite and offered you tea and a selection of cookies, nori chips, and fresh rice balls for you, but they were so sorry. They had just then recycled the boxes and were not going to have any for at least a few days.

When you got back to your suite, an unseen maid had unpacked everything and put it all back in place in your room. Your suitcase had even been emptied and freshened and put back in the closet. You gaped at the pristine room which even had fresh flowers in the vase.

You weren’t sure what to do then and fingered the heavy leather portfolio. The Hanamura you had known was gone. It could never return. The air seemed thick and humid with tears that you weren’t sure you could or should shed. It made you think of a nocturne or a dirge, a heavy, deep violin melody. It gave you a peculiar feeling of what seemed to be completion to compose this piece and it rolled out of you in a long sigh.

You took out your violin and raised it to your chin. The notes rolled out like solemn tolling of a bell, a reverent promise. Even you were shocked at how it was coming out and you raced to drag out your phone and record it. The tones called out, reaching from your heart. The music was soft and slow, a stately walk through the measures, and made you sway equally evenly.

Finally, you found your tears. You hadn’t wanted them, confused and faintly ashamed that you were crying over a gangster of all people. You tried to figure it out, to justify that feeling of mourning. You were a good person. You weren’t supposed to be crying over a criminal.

But every time that you got on that train of thought, you remembered that Sojiro knew every member of his household by name, their birthdays and their anniversaries. He gave his favored servants time off on both. He put flowers on his wife’s and mother’s graves every year. He liked chocolates and frequently ate Belgian truffles. He indulged his younger son’s love of motorcycles and cars that went far too fast for any sensible person. He loved origami and his office had a delicate glass shelved case with particularly exquisite and delicate paper flowers, twisting dragons, posing cranes, and intricate crab that was supposed to have been made from 17 sheets of paper before being lacquered in a slick red. He liked watching a particularly old series of cartoons called “Double Dragon”. He talked softly to himself when he was recording events on his calendar. He kept a stash of candies and a small bag of dog treats in his pockets—rather, his bodyguard’s pockets—when he went out walking so that he could give them to small children and puppies in the park.

If it hadn’t been for his hereditary profession, he would have been a completely likable person.

Of course, you were summoned to play at dinner. You took out one of your black performance dresses—a somber affair that had a high, modest Mandarin neckline, short capped sleeves and only the smallest slit in the back so that you could walk. You chose black hose and plain black pumps with a sprinkle of gold sparkles the size of pinpricks across the toes. You wiped your violin and bow down with an oiled cloth and slid the coarse hairs of the bow over your pack of rosin.

Perhaps the Shimada heir was looking to honor his father by having you play one last time before you packed (again) and left tomorrow. That was what you told yourself. A last performance. 

That thought made you feel better, more at ease. He was a yakuza prince and now a yakuza leader—an oyabun—but he was still a human being. He was a man who had lost his father. He was a son, a brother. He surely felt pain, sorrow. Surely, he mourned his loss and wasn’t going to do... anything.

You decided to keep thinking that. He was a man who wanted to honor his father a last time. He had lost much, lost something irreplaceable. He had listened to you play many times for his father. You had been at Hanamura for months, had lived with his family, eaten his food and slept on his estate. You mourned Sojiro and undoubtedly his pain was greater and more profound.

So, as if Sojiro was still there, you waited just outside the dining room with the line of servants. Hanzo and Genji would enter, kneel across from each other at the low, antique table on the embroidered cushions. First would come Ina with two hot, moist hand towels on a stoneware platter, allowing them to wash their hands. Then, Sana and Marie would slide in and set long pale chopsticks on a resting stone, cloth napkins with a discrete Shimada crest embroidered in the corners, and turquoise enameled plates. Ina would come in with heavy turquoise cups the size of fists and a matching pot of the green tea that Sojiro swore was the secret to good health and prosperity. She would pour them tea as Sana and Marie would bring in platters of their first courses—usually rice with small bowls of nori, furikake and tsukudani. Then came soup. Next was pickles—probably pickled daikon—and a vegetable and then a meat course served with vegetables. Probably there was going to be little chocolate truffles for dessert and likely there was going to be a toast of sake to the old man’s legacy.

You usually came in at the soup course. You would then bow shallowly and, even if you weren’t officially acknowledged, you would raise your violin and begin. Sojiro would at least grace you with a smile even if there was nothing else. So, you listened carefully and counted the rough shushing of the traditional doors sliding open and closed. 

One—that was Hanzo and Genji coming in. Two—that was Ina going in. Three—Ina coming out. Four—Sana and Marie going in to set the table. Five was them coming out. Six was Ina going in with tea. Seven was Ina coming out and Sana and Marie going in with their first platters. Eight was them leaving. Nine was Ina going in to get the dirty dishes while Sana and Marie brought in the soup in two bowls, along with more rice and a fresh pot of tea.

You strolled in quite normally and took your normal place in the corner of the room. Without really looking at anyone or anything, you put your chin on the rest and the violin up in its normal position. The new piece was still ringing in your ears, soothing and slow and somber, but you were not going to start with it. You never start with your best piece.

The myriad scents of the dinner were soothing in their sameness, their ordinary rhythm. There was a faint whiff of lemon from the towels, miso and soy smells, the sweet-sour of the pickles. There was the soft hiss of the vents. There was the tiny unevenness of the seam of the corner of the tatami here. All it needed was the appropriate soundtrack.

Like clockwork, you played. A nocturne. A heavy sigh of a religious hymn was next. Then a lullaby. The sounds of dining were a counterpoint—an uneven rhythm of clinks and scrapes. Not interrupting you as you sank into the flow and swayed to the somber music. Not even the comings and goings of the servants as they brought in the costly courses interrupted you.

It fit here, now, to start your own piece.

You swayed like your normally did as you became one with your art. Your new piece, the one you created from your own complicated feelings, sweetly swelled out. It filled the traditional dining room, obliterating everything but you and your violin. Your tilting became swaying, became half turns and then at last full turns as you began your slow and sad dance.

At last, finally, you were done. You were sweating and panting as you realized you were done and had ended up facing a wall. Flushing, you whirled and looked at the table in a hasty bow to the Shimada brothers.

Hanzo was alone at the table.

He had several small plates in front of him with a selection of minute sweets and then two tokkuri and two cups of sake. You flushed again, even more now that you realized that Genji was not with him. Now why was that an unsettling thought? That you were alone with the Shimada Scion and actually wanted the Shimada Sparrow sitting there spouting off his usual silly nonsense. Instead, it was just the solemn Scion with an array of treats and the finest sake available in front of him.

He clapped slowly, elegantly and then waved to a zabuton—the wide, flat traditional cushion to sit or kneel on—that was beside him. “Please, sit.”

You heard a thrum of power in his voice, a certainty that he was to be obeyed. He was a strong man, a man of charisma and power, but now there was an indescribable tone that said that anyone of the tiniest bit of intelligence would not only obey him, but obey him eagerly if they knew what was good for them. And, being a sensible person, you went to the zabuton and knelt down.

There was no one and nothing to stop him.

“Please... try this,” he murmured, picking up a cube of moist, yellow cake. Slowly, elegantly, he pressed it to your lips. “It is a western pound cake recipe with an orange liqueur.”

You felt it sink against your lips and started to protest, but that only gave him the opportunity to push it in. The liquor tingled your tongue, and you swallowed the sweet bite. But as soon as you did, he had a thumb sized mochi right there. Then he picked up the cup and held it to your lips, pouring it over your tongue before you could speak.

You pulled back a little as the sake went burning down your throat. “I... apologize, sir.” You glanced around nervously, but no one would appear until the family left the room. “You must be tired.” He gave a possessive grin and said nothing. “After such a long day with your father’s funeral.”

“Hmmm, it has been a long day,” he murmured. “But all the more reason to be grateful for lovely company and beautiful music.”

“W-w-what?”

He smirked and pushed the cup of sake to you. “There is no more enlightened reason to drink a toast than to drink to a beautiful woman and her art.”

You shuddered slightly at the overwhelming warmth in his voice. “I am so sorry for your loss.” Why on earth was he sliding a delicate plate over to you with a chocolate truffle and two more cake squares on it? “And... I suppose that I should... be packing.”

“Why is that?”

You turned very red at the purr that filled the room. “I mean... you.... Your father.”

“Hmm... my father did enjoy your music. It brought him immense pleasure to hear you play.” He took a delicate sip from his cup. “Was the last piece a new one?”

“Yes.” Your ears felt hot. “I... composed it this afternoon.”

“To honor my father,” he smirked with a regal nod. “How thoughtful. Then I am doubly thankful.”

You swallowed your squawk. “I... You’re welcome.”

He nodded solemnly. “I would request that you record it.”

“But... but why? I mean—it was specifically for your father.” You looked around at the room you had never expected to be sitting in. “It was for today.”

“I would like... to listen to it again.” He took another drink. “It is a soothing song and a lovely tribute.” He gave you a sideways grin. “I would like for a private recording—for my music library. But I believe that you have a promising talent and would like for you to consider perhaps doing some recording. A few demo tracks.”

“D-d-demo tracks?”

He nodded and his grin was predatory. “I know a few people. People who are looking for talent and music.” He waved slightly. “There is a recording studio downtown and I have arranged a recording session so that you can put together a few pieces.”

“B-b-but... I have... intruded on your hospitality long enough. I mean, you are still in mourning and I... need to... pack?”

“Oh? Where are you going?” He didn’t wait for you to answer, only raised an eyebrow. “You should be back in a few days so you are in time for your recording session.”

You shook your head. “You’re... far too busy—.”

“I am?”

“I mean, you are a... really important man. And I need to... get a place of my own. And not intrude....”

“Your place is here,” he ordered in that same commanding tone. The one that said he would not take ‘no’ for an answer. “Things will not change overmuch.”

You felt all the blood that was flooding your face drop to your feet. “I mean, you will not need me around the place... now that he’s... gone.”

“It is my house now.” He grinned. “I will continue to enjoy your music and you will continue to live here.”

“Live... here?”

“Or wherever I am,” he purred. “There is the odd possibility that I will travel.”

“You want me... to travel with you? Live with you?”

“Indeed. How else would I be able to enjoy your music?” His long, elegant hand reached over to delicately trace one finger down your arm. “Enjoy your... company?”

You flushed. That had never been a part of the agreement. Never been a part of living here. Never had you been forced to do more than look pretty and play like an elaborate music box—until Hanzo had entered your life. It had simply never been a part of your experience. You weren’t sure you dared pull away either.

Hanzo simply sat there like an grinning enigma. “You are a darling. My father enjoyed your company, little blossom, and now I shall simply... continue what he started.”

You tried to explain, “No. This is a misunderstanding. A terrible misunderstanding. I have never been... ahh... intimate with your father.” You tried to explain it. “I have... just been a musician. Nothing else.”

“No. Of course you have never been intimate with my father.” He gave a knowing chuckle. “I refuse to believe that he was in the slightest attractive to you in that way, but I also happen to know that two of the medications he was on would... ah, prevent him from acting on any attraction he felt.”

“What?!” You felt something choke your throat. “I mean... what kind of... ?!”

“It is just as well, my blossom,” he chuckled. “I do not share—not even with my father. Not with my brother. Not with anyone. Instead, we will enjoy each other’s company. As we have always been destined to do.”

You scrambled to your feet. This was not how this was supposed to go. Not how things were supposed to happen. You grabbed your violin, but as soon as you dipped to reach for your bow, a large hand slammed down on top of it.

“Are you shy, my blossom? You do not have reason to be shy.” His dark eyes glittered up at you. “And the evening is young.”

No. Just no.

You tugged the bow, growling when he snorted a laugh and ripped it from your grasp. Fine, then. You could get a new bow. You whirled and ran to the door. Fumbling with the violin and the tiny clasp, you tugged as hard as you could.

Locked.

“My servants have made sure we are quite alone, my blossom.” He finished the sake in his cup and considered it in his cupped palm. “I thought it would please you to have some privacy while we settled things.

“Now... we will discuss your position. Right now, you have been a... guest in my home for some time. You have done well and given my father joy and some of the last pleasure afforded to an old man. My thanks for that.

“However, you know you no longer have my father protecting you. And who can say what will happen to you out there? You have no significant family or friends. No resume. There are so many things that could happen to a fragile flower in the world without someone... easing your way.” He shrugged and—despite typical etiquette dictating that someone else should pour his drink—he filled his cup again. “There is so much... uncertainty in music. With the continued support of Omnic musicians, it it highly doubtful that professional musicians will be a common, honorable and profitable calling again. Not unless there is a powerful patron to ease the way into studios, into deals. 

“And without money coming in—what do you plan to do? Continue playing for free in parks, hoping someone else will pick you up like a lost puppy? You will undoubtedly—while you are still a flawless flower—be propositioned, and not necessarily for your skills with a violin. Not to mention that many have seen you here as you performed for my father. Everyone will connect you to here. To us.”

“I... I’ll tell them that I was just a musician.”

“And if I say different?”

“But it would never.... No one would believe it.”

He snorted softly, laughing. “Who would not believe it?”

You gaped at him, terrified as his words sank into your blood. Every word he said was true. You were trapped.

“What do you want?”

“I want what every man wants, I think. And to my good fortune, here you already are in my household.” He picked up a sweet cube of cake and seemed to consider it. “So, things will go on as they have been.”

You gaped at him in shock. “As you hump your fist?!” you hissed at him. He managed to blink slightly, but his smile never wavered which made your blood freeze in some new, unknown way. “I’m not—!”

“—going anywhere else,” he shrugged lightly. Somehow he didn’t need to raise his voice or growl to have his words run over yours. “You will continue to live and perform here as you have been.”

“That is—.”

“Surely it is not so difficult,” he smirked, taking a sip of sake. “You have been doing so well for so long.”

“I have plans!”

“Indeed,” he nodded. “You will need to prepare for your recording session.” He tilted his head and watched you. “In the meantime, you will need to find a few more things. A well made evening gown immediately and then a few more in the next few weeks. A flattering suit and some shoes so that you look appropriately professional.” Your cheeks flames and you opened your mouth to protest, but he only watched you with that grin. “I have arranged for a personal shopper to come over in three days, along with a seamstress.”

“What? A personal shopper? A seamstress?”

“It would not do for you to appear looking poorly.” He smiled even more, a cunning predator’s toothy threat. “And it would please me to see you well... dressed.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary—I will be packing tomorrow!”

He only gave you an infuriatingly calm shrug. “You may pack, if it pleases you. It would make it easier for you to move to the new suite I have prepared for you.”

You suddenly felt chilled and your muscles cramped as you gripped the slender neck of your instrument. “W-w-what... new suite?”

He waved absently, chillingly. “It is ready for you.” Again your protest was cut short. “I was told only yesterday that it has been finished. If there is something that was forgotten, then I will expect you to bring it up.”

“What? Who—?”

“Of course, whenever I am not working, I will be happy for you to tell me... personally, but the servants have been instructed to forward any requests to me.” His smile smoothed out as you paled. “They will be nearby, of course, and keeping an eye on things.”

You felt chilled, suddenly certain without any words, that they were specifically keeping an eye on you. Keeping an eye on you. You whispered, “But... I was—?”

“You will be here and I am happy to have you.” He sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. “And now that we have settled that, then we can enjoy the evening, yes?”

“I... need some air,” you muttered. You picked up the instrument and the bow, cradling it close as a child. “E-e-excuse me.”

He did finally let you go. You staggered to the door, clawing at the door. His low chuckle made you turn around and you gaped at the tiny remote in his hand. He waved it meaningfully at you and when he saw your eyes following it, he touched the small button and you heard the door unlock behind you.

The suite of rooms Sojiro had given you felt suddenly strange and cold. It was like a foreign planet, a place where powerful men could rearrange lives like pieces on a chess board. You stared at the vase of flowers and the leather portfolio as if they were strange artifacts rather than things that you had enjoyed. Your room? Hardly—it was just a place you had been living in.

Sure and true to his word, when you awoke the next morning, you could barely move without finding someone who was watching you. The sour faced gardener who hadn’t said more than a few words to you suddenly wanted you to sit on that particular bench so that he could tell you about the ancient sakura tree. The cook was busy as always, but he finally sat you down at the family table where other servants were constantly walking past the doors and watching you. The maid who came in to make your bed and change your towels had a pile of boxes that the kitchen swore they didn’t have and chatted about nothing as she began wrapping up your decorations and things before taking you across the estate to your new suite.

If you had thought you were in luxury before, you realized you were sadly mistaken. Your new suite had five rooms—a bedroom, a private bathroom with a jacuzzi and huge walk in shower, a sort of office with a handsome secretary desk with a dozen little cubbies along the back, a luxurious chair on wheels and a house phone, a sitting room with a television and two couches and a recliner in a buttery soft leather and then some kind of dressing room with multiple racks for hanging clothes, a tall dresser with myriad drawers (even a velvet lined jewelry drawer), a long counter with a sink and a mirror that seemed to be a movie star’s, and a fainting couch beneath a twinkling chandelier. There was even a sliding door to a porch and an exquisite jewel box garden with a thin, graceful Japanese maple tree over a small pond of koi fish and large boulder enclosed on all four sides by the building with other doors going into what you could only assume were other suites. 

You gaped at it all like a child. There was even a table in the office for your violin and a safe in the wall of your bedroom. Your clothes hung on the rack and your small collection of shoes seemed forlorn in the epic dressing room. Your makeup was in a small cardboard box in front of the lit mirror. There was an exotic three paneled mirror folded around a short dais like in some exotic dress store. The bed was made with luxurious sheets and a soft silken quilt that had panels of geisha and panels of chrysanthemums and carefully turned down on one side. There was a thick pad of music paper in the office along with a stack of writing paper and an exquisite, heavy fountain pen. Your violin had a stand that held it almost upright in the beam of a recessed spotlight. Everything Sojiro had given you was already on display in the suite.

You shuddered as you padded lightly around. The bookshelves in the bedroom had a selection of erotic literature. There was a lacy lingerie set in a wide, flat box that was delivered to you shortly after you got there. In the bathroom was a short, embroidered robe in satin hanging in the bathroom along with an impossibly glamorous pair of high heeled slippers. When you turned on the television there was a borderline pornographic movie playing.

There was no mistaking what Hanzo wanted.

A maid appeared at four that afternoon. She gave you a slick, heavy folded piece of paper—a catty invitation to dinner—and breezed inside before you got more than a glimpse of the guard further down the hallway. She ushered you to the dressing room and picked out fresh underthings, a sleek cocktail dress and hose and heels. Quite insistently, she ran you a bath with an exotic oil from one of the cabinets before setting out shampoo and conditioner and thick towels.

You were bathed and in a robe and seated on the fainting couch before you knew it and the maid began filing your nails and doing your makeup and fixing your hair. Then she helped you into your clothes and spritzed you with a breath of perfume from a bottle she conjured from somewhere. It took an hour or more—you had honestly never taken such care to dress before—and she chattered flattery the entire time before leading you to the dining room.

It was the first time that you had actually sat down in the room. Hanzo and Genji both came in—Hanzo in a stately black kimono and Genji in an extremely high fashion suit. You had your own place setting and a small cup for sake, along with a stemless wine glass and a pottery cup for water. You were dumbfounded as Marie and Sana gave you a warm cloth to wash your hands with and served you tea and soup and the rest.

Hanzo and Genji spoke on carefully general topics and it didn’t escape your notice that whenever things began to wander to things Hanzo didn’t want to discuss, he would tug at his right cuff and then suddenly things would go back to bland and neutral topics—the weather, movies, sumo, and so on. You had nothing to object to beyond the fact that it was hard to kneel with your feet in high heels.

When you were served a tiny plate of chocolate mochi, Hanzo switched topics yet again. “The personal shopper and seamstress will be here tomorrow.”

“Oh?” was all you could reply.

“And tomorrow evening we will go see the Tokyo Symphony Orchestra.” He took a sip of the fragrant tea. “We will have seats in box five.”

Genji snorted and shook his green hair. “I’ll pass.”

Hanzo nodded with a smile that clearly said that his brother hadn’t been invited. “We will be out until late, so I will expect you to handle the night work.” Genji gave a snarky pout and a grunt, but nodded anyway. “We will not do this every night but we can sneak out once in a while.”

“You work too hard, Han,” Genji grunted as he drank his sake. “You need to relax.”

“Then you will not mind the duties so that I can,” Hanzo snorted in return. He shifted slightly and his face was serious. “Nor will you interfere with either of us.”

“Who? Me?”

Hanzo nodded grimly, plucking up his sake and considering it cooly. “It is not a secret that you pursue wild parties and many women. It is my pleasure to give you the same warning our father gave you—she is mine and you are to stay away.”

Genji looked at you up and down with an oddly cool expression. You bristled at the dispassionate examination—as if you were a racehorse he was considering bidding on. Then he shrugged carelessly and nodded. “You know—if it weren’t for the fact that you were finally getting that stick out of your ass, I’d totally tell you to go fuck yourself.”

“As long as you understand your place,” Hanzo shrugged in return.

There were a few seconds of shaky and tense silence before Genji snickered and nodded. “Fuck you, anija—.”

“Please at least try to be civilized,” Hanzo sighed, rolling his eyes. “Father is undoubtedly gnashing his teeth at your behavior.”

“Yeah—but he’s not here,” Genji grunted sourly. “Can’t you take a joke?”

“Just leave.”

Without waiting for a reply, Hanzo rose and took your hand. “Come, and we will walk for a while.”

You were sort of tugged along and found yourself walking through your suite to the private garden. He finally paused once on the porch. There he wrapped his arm around you with his large hand on your hip. “Here we are—a quiet garden where we will not be disturbed.”

You were going to protest, but he was determined and pulled you along. Finally you were standing next to the pond. The silvery and golden koi slowly swirled past as if it was a magic potion. You wobbled on your heels, leaning this way and that as you tried to not topple with your sharp heels digging into the soft soil.

He caught you, sweeping you close against himself. “I suppose that I should apologize for my brother, but you know Genji—he has always been like that.”

You opened your mouth, but you were interrupted by the maid sliding open the door behind you. “Oh, miss—I am so sorry!” she mumbled as she dropped into a respectful bow. “I thought—.”

Hanzo breathed a light chuckle in your ear and turned you both around. “There you are, Aoi-san. My lady would appreciate your assistance.”

You whimpered. Every word he spoke—even this about face—was sealing your position. Every word bound you closer to him. After this careful and solicitous phrase, even the maids would be utterly convinced you were his lover already. And then they’d gossip and in days, everyone for miles would believe it. Even if you got away, you’d never be in respectable society again—and everyone would think you were crazy for leaving in the first place.

Unsurprisingly, between Hanzo and the maid, you were inside again. The master of the house was settled down in the parlor as you were ushered back to the dressing room. The maid helped you undress, wash off your makeup, take down and brush your hair, setting your clothes aside and offering you the scandalous gown and robe and slippers. No matter what you whispered and hissed in protest, she would only giggle and urged you to get changed for the master who should not be kept waiting.

Then she ushered you out. Hanzo had relaxed on the couch, smiling as you were brought before him in a cloud of lace and silk. He leaned back as the maid nudged you forward and then disappeared.

“You have surprised me,” he purred with a smile. “I had not thought that perfection could not be improved upon, but I see I was wrong.” 

He pulled a tiny phone from some hidden pocket and touched a few buttons on it. A violin solo swelled out to fill the room with long, low music. It made you throb in some new way to be clothed in silk and lace, surrounded by luxury and music and trapped in the heat of his stare.

Hanzo tossed the little device aside and rose to his feet in front of you. It seemed that he was also trapped in the melody because his every move was in time to the music. He practically danced as he walked up to you, his face earnest and even his hands swaying and drifting.

“Do you hear it?” he whispered. His hands came to cover yours and bring them up to his lips. Delicate little kisses to your fingertips that made you shiver as the violin rose and fell effortlessly. You felt ever so light pressure and found yourself swaying back and forth in tandem with him. “We are bound together are we not?”

Then he released you. You shuddered at the loss of his heat but he only tugged the obi off and tossed it aside and then the waist string. The black top layer fell loosely open, revealing the white under layer. You gaped at him, surprised after all—he was really that muscular and it wasn’t a trick of clever tailoring. He took your hands again and brought your fingers to his kisses again before guiding them down.

“I think I am... overdressed,” he smirked. “Why not help me solve that little problem?”

You gaped at the thin waist string holding the white under-layer closed. There was even another layer under that which you could only assume was similar. Still, as he shrugged and flexed, the lapels gaped slightly and you saw a bit of the flowing tail of his tattoo.

He noticed and brought your hand up to push it underneath his clothes and to stroke it. “You are welcome to touch it,” he smiled. “And the rest of me.”

The waist string was not tied in any kind of knot you expected, just twisted around itself and tucked into itself. It was a flat, and sleek tie that came undone surprisingly easy, allowing it to be concealed under layers of clothing. The two layers of of kimono—full length robes of silk—slid off of him easily once you knew how to undo it all. Then he was in a simple hakama and naked to the waist.

“It is not so hard to please me,” he nodded as the final layer dropped to the floor. Again he brought your hand up to the tattoo, brushing your fingers all along the twisting body of the dragon. “You can rest assured that you will always have my attention.”

He smirked and tugged at the lacy lapels of your robe. It seemed to fall open at his touch, revealing the lacy nightie underneath. His grin grew wider as he roughly traced the lacy edge of the bodice. You gasped in a breath as his hot fingers raced along the thin straps at your shoulders and across the curve of your breasts.

You took a shaky step backwards, but your balance on the spindly heels abandoned you and you wove. His arms shot out and wrapped around you, dragging you right up to him, skin-to-skin. It made you shiver, feeling his rock hard muscles right up against you. The silky fabric was blistering hot now, making everything seem enflamed.

His arm tightened around you as the other hand tilted your chin up. “You are mine.” His lips brushed yours as you shivered. “You were always meant to be mine—ever since you first came here with your violin.”

You shook your head wildly as your mind focused entirely on the hot ridge between his legs. Two meager layers of fabric separated you both and the overwhelming heat was enough to shred all of your thinking. “But I....”

“Even my father knew that you would be mine,” he hissed, brushing light kissed in your hair. “But I am a merciful master. Even when you would defy me, run from me, I am merciful.”

“Mercy?” You gasped as his roaming hand went to a strap on your shoulder. “What?”

He pushed the silky ribbon down your shoulder, the gown gaping loosely across your chest. “I will keep you. Protect you. You will be safe here at Hanamura, free to create all of the lovely music you wish.”

His finger dipped under the strap and you felt a tug and heard a snap. Your lacy body gaped drunkenly off one side of your chest, revealing the top curve of your breast. “No... wait—.”

He picked up your hand again and kissed your fingertips. “That is something that you will not lightly tell me.” He released you and snapped the second strap, grinning at the bodice as it flopped down almost to your waist. “I have permitted it in the past, but it will not be often that I will allow it.” His hand reached up to cup your bare breast. “I would suggest saving such moments of grace for when it would mean something more.”

“I... don’t—.”

He kissed you again. “Such a shy beauty. I will cherish your innocence.”

“You can’t just... rip my clothes off!”

You were shocked to feel him reach up to the bodice and do exactly that. It ripped from the dip in the neckline all the way to the hem and then fell away to the floor. “I will do whatever I please.”

Without another word, he undid the almost invisible knot at the waist of the hakama. You shivered as it to floated down, revealing his body. His hands covered yours, bringing your hands to his hard cock. It was there, in your palm, thick and hard and silky skin surrounded with neatly trimmed black curls. He let out another pleased purr as your fingers curled uncertainly around him.

“And you will love me like you love your sad violin,” he grinned, pulling your hands back up to to kiss your palms.

There was nothing else to say then. He picked you up as tenderly as any bride on her wedding night, and settled you on the wide bed. Then he pulled apart your thighs and settled between them. His eyes were burning as he palmed your breasts gently.

He was slow, maddeningly patient as he explored your body with graceful fingers and tingling kisses. You weren’t even sure how to escape him, as he laid on top of you, dropping toe-curling kisses along your skin. And when you thought you could shimmy away, he pulled your knees up to his waist.

He grinned down at you and whispered, “Brace yourself, my blossom.”

You let out a wail as he slid inside. It was surprising—a fullness where you hadn’t even known you felt empty, a burning heat deep within and flowing out to coat you. There was a dewy sweat spreading over your skin as he thrust slowly, patiently. He was steady, a furnace hot rock in the night as he kept going.

Then he was at the hip-to-hip, hard stop. As deep as he could go and you felt a trembling run all through your body. There was a low rumble in his chest as he closed his eyes and grinned in masculine satisfaction.

“You are so delightful,” he purred as his hips flexed back and forward again. You gasped and bucked in his grip. “And I am well pleased.”

His lips began tugging at your tight nipples, suckling at the tips and sending unexpected jolts of pleasure through to your core. It made your muscles tighten, torque around him to feel such lava flowing through you.

You took a hasty gasp of air as he finally leaned on his forearms, his hips powerful and thrusting again. The muted music swelled and the beat changed slightly. He was thrusting in time to the music, making that dizzy swaying and tempo blossom in you.

The solo finished and after a scant twenty seconds of silence, a new piece played. It was faster, making him faster and smoother. Everything felt liquid and heady and you were overwhelmed as he kept stoking your inner fire. Your hands felt helpless, and then you reached up to his shoulders.

He grinned, shooting you an approving look as his hips snapped hard. That made you melt, made you gasp as an electric jolt curled your toes and made you give him a little whine. With one hand, he cupped your cheek to look up at him.

“You unman me,” he hissed. His teeth nibbled your lower lip, pounding into you. “You drive me to the edge.”

You opened your mouth and he kissed you, his tongue pressing inside. Instinctively, you opened wider, your hands gripping and then your arms went around his neck. His hips stuttered as he felt your tension loosen.

Breaking for air, he sighed and you were shocked to see him biting his lower lip, his face flushed. “You need more, do you not?”

“W-w-what?”

“You need more,” he sighed again, groaning. “More to be pleased.”

Without warning, he pulled out of you and pushed down. You glanced at the man as his mouth brushed your belly and his tongue dipped over your navel as if he was lapping cream off of you. His hands spread you out and with one last, burning smile, he dipped his head.

His fingers—his fingers danced over your trembling skin, making you whine. He lapped at everything, every little nook and nerve. You jerked nervously, anxiously, as fire began to consume you. He was a devil, wasn’t he? He had to be to know how to turn you inside out like this.

Your eyes were screwed tight shut as you helplessly reached down. No matter what you meant to do, your hands went to hold his head down. Silky strands of his hair tangled around your fingers as he lapped at you. It only made him more eager, more energetic to thrust thick fingers inside you, and stopping only as you bucked up and screeched.

You were curling up, broken words and whines tangled together when he pulled back again. It was a break in your fire and felt like a bucket of cold water thrown over you. He knelt on the bed, laughing as you twitched. You glowered at him, your hands twitching.

“My phoenix—are you on fire?” You nodded at him, tugging on his arms and reaching up to him. “Good.”

He pounced on you, sliding hilt deep again without another word. The Firebird Suite bloomed from his phone—a full symphony performance this time—as his hips snapped. You gripped him tightly, feeling a rollercoaster of fire and heat as he covered your body with his own. Sweat glistened on his skin as his lips fastened on yours.

Finally he took in a breath and hissed, “I want you to scream for me.”

You nodded dizzily, your legs locking around his waist. “It... it’s too much!”

“More and more and more,” he panted, his kisses trailing down your neck. “Break for me. Fall for me.”

Your hand went to hold his head down and your other hand scratched lightly across his back and shoulders. That made him groan, his body shuddering and speeding up. His hips snapped powerfully, causing—forcing—more heat into your veins.

You were caught in the tidal swell and pushed up harder. The powerful man above you kept his breakneck pace, kept tweaking your nipples and pushing your head up so that he could claim your lips, kiss your eyelids and gently lick the frustrated tears running down your cheeks.

“Break for me,” he hissed again. You whined and nodded against his fingertips. “Make me complete and cum.”

You screamed again, wailing as his words burned into your brain. His hips ground hard and everything seemed to explode as he kept going. His endurance was breathtaking and you writhed beneath him as he kept pouring fire into your veins. He shifted again, tucking a hand under your ass and squeezing your hip.

You panted wildly, soft whines coming out. Your fingers dug into his back as the thick muscles rippled beneath his skin. Then he went even faster, and your nails scraped his skin. More fire, more power and more pleasure whipped your frazzled nerves even tighter. “Oh, God....” He growled into your throat. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

His teeth bit the soft skin of your throat. So hard it was blinding you, forcing you to press up to him. It was too much, and you pumped up faster and harder. When he pulled back slightly, to stare into your eyes, you growled back at him, whining and clawing. That made him laugh again as he went faster.

You felt stars explode in all of your body. The throbbing burst in every part of your body, making you scream and shove up against him. He clutched you tighter and you could feel his cock jerking as you whined. And as you felt that pleasure start to fade, you felt him thrust in wild, heavy snaps and then heard him moan your name as everything in you jerked, whipping you up in pleasure for another brief high.

He let out a purring sigh and ground against you one more time as his cock twitched inside you. “My phoenix,” he panted, squeezing your hip. “You are more than I had imagined.”

You whimpered to feel the last, tiny shivers flow back and forth between the two of you. He smiled and nuzzled your skin possessively. He even lapped at the sensitive skin he had bitten, making you let out a whimper. You shuddered one more time, feeling his cock jerk a last time as he softened within before he pulled out.

You let out a soft sound as he laid next to you. His arms wrapped around you and you stared at the muscular forearm just under your breasts. The tattoo was gleaming dark blue and grey and green as you stared at it dumbly. The dragon seemed to stare at you from his wrist as you felt the sticky slick between your legs.

Hanzo yawn and curled up next to you, his face in the nape of your neck. “You are perfection itself—as I always believed.”

You kept staring at the dragon, a faint feeling of alarm as you wondered how on earth you ended up here like this. Hanzo’s breath tickled your hair and sent faint goosebumps down your spine. “What... happens next?”

“Mmmm. We sleep. We rise tomorrow and you have your shopping to do and I have business to attend to. I will look forward to lunch with you before I head downtown and I would like for you to be dressed in something beautiful.” He shrugged and stretched slightly on the bed. “And my nights will assuredly be yours.”

“What do you want from me?” you finally whispered.

“More of this,” he sighed, hugging you tighter. “More and more and more....”

You squeezed your thighs and felt that moist, wet feeling. “But... I don’t have.... I don’t know what you want.”

That made him pause and he snickered behind you. “I want you to love me.” You frowned, feeling vaguely concerned at the unexpected depth of his voice. “To belong to me and to be mine alone.”

You were going to say more, to ask something, but as you looked down at his arms around your body, you were struck by the dragon staring back at you. It seemed different now, a smug expression on its mouth and a satisfied tilt to his horns and the mane seemed to flow in some new way.

You blinked sleepily, staring at it. The dragon was staring at you, you knew it. It wasn’t the lighting. It wasn’t the angle or the twist of his arms. It was looking directly at you. Like, directly in your eyes with a satisfied gleam in its inky eyes.

He yawned again, his nose nuzzling you roughly. “I want you to love me like your sad violin.”

The dragon winked at you as your eyes closed for sleep.


End file.
